


Free City

by Illusionist



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Dark, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Inspired by 1984 - George Orwell, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27690266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusionist/pseuds/Illusionist
Summary: In the Hydra New World Order, Steve’s a bisexual, art-loving, animal lover, and all of them happen to be punishable on way or another. A chance encounter with a man full of secrets who calls himself Bucky makes matters all the more complicated, especially because it's not clear which side Bucky really belongs to.In a world victim to propaganda, government surveillance, discrimination, and deceit, can there be any hope of finding love when love is forbidden?And does the legendary Free City really exist? Will that be the solution to all his pain? Steve will soon find out.--A modern, post-Hydra, dystopian universe fic nobody except me asked for!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers! I'm so excited to share this fic with you, and can't wait to read what you think of it.
> 
> A Captain America, 1984, and Handmaid's Tale mashup. Lots of drama and angst!
> 
> If anybody is willing to beta this story, please let me know!

Steve inhales the night air. The mild autumn wind feels good against his skin. The sky is clear, and there is no sound except the occasional rustling of leaves. His fingers are itching for a pen so he can sketch the scene in front of him. The rows of five-floor grey building, the yellow leaves slowly dancing with the rhythm of the wind, the lonely, empty benches in front of the buildings together with the spooky, dark, park in the background would make a fantastic sketch.

One of the benches, however, is not empty. There is a man sitting on the last bench, looking at the sky with a pensive expression on his face, most probably waiting for Steve. So Steve takes a deep breath before quietly walking towards the bench.

He stops a few inches away from the bench, suddenly not knowing what to do. What _should_ he do? There is a box next to the man. It doesn’t look like anything special, covered with the same yellow paper that every box is covered with in New York these days, and that actually makes Steve more nervous. What is Steve doing here? It is almost 11 P.M, way past curfew. The petrol police could be lurking anywhere, waiting for an excuse to arrest someone. Steve could actually go to jail for this. It is pretty dark except for the flimsy light coming off and an old street lamp two feet away. Still, one of the neighbors could be watching them. Any one of the neighbors could be a spy. They could report him, and …

“Relax. No one’s watching,” The man says quietly and finally looks at Steve. There is no smile on his lips, but there is some sort of amusement in his eyes that makes him look almost … kind, a lot different from what Steve had seen a couple of days ago at the garage.

What led them to this moment was … kind of silly. Ginger, the tiny kitten which always hanged around Steve’s university, had decided to develop pneumonia, and Steve could not possibly ignore that when the cat kept circling him, pleading with him with those infected eyes for help. So Steve decided to shove Ginger in his bag after classes were over so that he could find an empty spot to feed him secretly. Owning any kind of pets or helping stray animals in any was illegal. The government had long ago decided to terminate all stray cats and dogs in all cities, and the mere fact that Ginger had survived the government somehow was enough reason for Steve to help him any way he could.

Somehow, as Steve was trying to find a spot which surveillance cameras could not spot at the edge of the town, Ginger broke free and ran for his life, that ungrateful little thing. Steve had to make a judgement call to go after the cat or return back home, and of course, he followed Ginger. There were a few minutes of intense running and Ginger, the damn cat who was unnaturally fast for a sick animal, finally ran inside a secluded, dirty-looking garage. Steve pondered for a few moments before deciding to walk in. There was no turning back for him then, and sure enough, the garage was not empty. There was a man bent over an engine, cursing as he struggled with something inside the car, but that wasn’t the scary part. It was the car itself. Steve didn’t know much about cars to be honest, but from the pictures that always passed around at high school between boys, he could guess he was looking at a … Lamborghini, an illegal car no one was supposed to drive, or even possess, as far as Steve remembered. Only Hydra-made cars were allowed, and they were so expensive that no one could afford them anyway except the elite, the unbelievably rich who lived uptown. As a rule, anything imported from other countries except Hydra’s allies was considered as a betrayal to the country, and could, at times, be even punishable with death.

Steve decided to quietly turn back and get out, but Ginger had decided to curl up between his feet, and mewed loudly followed a lot of wheezing as Steve moved backwards. This was enough to make the man look up, his face smeared with car grease as he spotted Steve at the door.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man stated the obvious fact as he walked towards him with fast, long strides.

“Ah,” was all Steve managed to say as the man stood in front of him and grabbed Steve’s shoulder. Steve wasn’t a small man, but the man’s hold was firm enough to hurt.

Ginger mewed again, and Steve remembered that he had to say something.

“Look, I didn’t see anything here. There’s … nothing here. My … eh … the cat fell out of my bag and came here. I’m just gonna take it and go … to terminate it,” Steve murmured quickly as he bent down to pick Ginger up, and then all the contents of his duffel bag fell out of the bag, splattering on the greasy floor. Panicked, he tried to pick them all up as quickly as he could, but sure enough, as Steve had feared, the man had spotted what Steve was not supposed to have, and he put his foot on the books, effectively stopping Steve mid-action.

Steve almost wanted to scream out of anger, but things weren’t looking too good for him what with the illegal pet and what the man had spotted in the mess on the floor, so he just bit his lower lip and stayed quiet.

The stranger didn’t say anything though. He just crouched down to check out the books.

“Mechanical Behavior of Materials, Robotics Foundation, …, Mechanical Engineering student, sophomore.” The stranger deduced correctly as he opened one book to look at the name on top of the first page, “Steve Rogers.”

Great. Now the stranger knew his name, too.

The man took his sweet time to finally pick up what Steve was not supposed to have. Technically, it was just an innocent sketchbook with a few amateurish black and white sketches inside. The problem, however, was that art supplies, novels, and basically any other thing related to humanities were contraband. It wasn’t as bad as keeping pets. It was, in fact, way, way worse; enough to put you jail for quite some time. Hydra wasn’t very tolerant of arts and humanities.

The man looked expressionless as he paged through the sketchbook. “Not bad,” he said finally. Steve didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“You carry more than one secret in your bag, Steve Rogers.” The man said after a long stretch of silence, referring to Ginger and the sketchbook.

“You have secrets of your own,” Steve said without thinking as he looked at the Lamborghini and back at the man.

The man’s eyebrow rose for a fraction of a second, and Steve could swear he saw the man’s lips twitch, too, but it was gone too soon for him to be sure.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make threats, Rogers, considering how, right now, you’re in an illegal part of town, carry an animal that is not supposed to exist, and you dabble in arts on top of it all,” the stranger said with an even tone, “and I could be petrol police for all you know.”

He really could be, Steve thought, and his heart began to pound.

“Luckily for you, I’m not,” the man said as he rose up, and Steve rose with him, trying to keep his cool. He just didn’t like to be kneeling in front of this man.

“How about we make a deal? I’ll give you back your secrets, and you walk out of here,” he said as he handed Steve his sketchbook back, “but we’ll make an appointment for a couple of days later.”

‘What for?’ Steve wanted to ask, but something told him agreeing to the proposition was the best decision he could possibly make, all things considered.

Steve hesitated for a few seconds before nodding. “Where do you wanna meet?” he asked, already regretting his decision.

“Oh, I’ll find you,” The stranger said. He didn’t look like he was threatening him, but the sentence had a very scary tone to it. “Just wait for my message.”

Steve wanted to point out that the stranger didn’t have his mobile number, but he decided to stay quiet again. Bending down, he quickly shoved everything, including a loudly protesting Ginger, in his bag, before turning around to leave, not knowing what else to do.

“Bucky,” Steve heard the man say as he was about to run out of the garage, and he turned around to give him a quizzical look.

“The name’s Bucky.”

The next three days were not easy at all. Steve kept suspecting everyone and everything. He was waiting for the petrol police to pop up from anywhere to arrest him, and he felt agitated no matter if he was at the university or at home. A few times, he wanted to tell Sam what had happened, but it just didn’t seem like a wise idea, so he suffered in silence. He didn’t even dare to sketch anymore. Maybe Bucky had bluffed. How could he find Steve anyway? All he knew was a name.

But three days later, an anonymous message came during lunch break. Anonymous numbers only belonged to people working in the government or the police, which made Steve all the more nervous. Who _was_ he?

_Tonight at 11:00,_

_the benches in front of your house._

_P.S: Delete the message._

So the man knew his mobile number _and_ home address. He _was_ the petrol police, wasn’t he? One of those who liked to torture victims first.

Steve’s face must have shown how apprehensive he was because Sam asked him if he was doing fine, but Steve only gave a weak smile in reply before going back to playing with his lunch. This wasn’t something he could tell anyone. At least not yet.

The scariest part of the whole ordeal, however, was that some part of Steve, a part he didn’t even know existed, was excited. He felt like he was doing something meaningful, even though he couldn’t completely understand why he felt that way. Yeah, he could be arrested, but what of it? It was better than this monotonous routine he kept going through day after day. He wasn’t particularly fond of the tedious classes of the university or the nightmarish silence at home. _Any_ change was welcome.

And now, here he is, a few inches away from Bucky in the dark, and waiting for the events to unfold.

“You can’t be sure no one is watching,” Steve says quietly. People have gone to jail for a lot less, or at least that’s what Steve has been told many times. He looks up again, squinting at their window on the fourth floor in the dark to make sure his father is not watching. The lights are off, and no one seems to be behind the window. That gives him some comfort.

“True,” Bucky replies and moves a few inches on the bench, inviting Steve to sit beside shim. Steve doesn’t hesitate before sitting. He doesn’t want to show any weakness. He didn’t do that when he was a scrawny kid in school and was beaten every other day. He’s not going to start showing weakness to strangers now.

“I have something for you,” Bucky says as he pushes the box towards Steve.

Some part of Steve wants to ask what’s in the box, the part which is still afraid this could be a setup. He just keeps remembering Peter, the high school classmate who used to hang out with a stranger for cocaine (well , that’s what he claimed. No one knows if it was true), and then one day, Peter just … disappeared. No one still knows where he is.

The other part, though, is excited. The part that is urging him to secretly eye the man. Bucky looks much neater now that his face isn’t smeared with grease. Combed black hair, black eyes, and a straight nose. His brown suit makes him look like any other ordinary employee, but the way he sits …., it reminds him of Uncle Frank who is employed in Hydra navy. Bucky carries himself like he owns his body, and that actually makes a part of Steve, the rebellious and defiant part, all the more excited. If he’s to be caught for doing what he loves, then let it be by the hands of a strong guy, not a cowardly blackmailer.

Steve opens the box, trying to keep his face expressionless, but his jaw drops as he sees what’s inside.

A professional colored pencils set.

Steve had seen pictures of it back when he was just a teenager and had realized drawing was one of his passions. He used to browse through the intranet using proxies to find sketches, and that’s when he had found out colored pencils existed, and with them, one could draw the most beautiful things he had ever laid eyes on.

And now it was inside the box in Steve’s hands, seductively winking at him.

Steve raises his head to look at the man suspiciously. Is this a bait?

“No, Rogers. It’s not a bait,” the man answers his unasked question, but Steve isn’t convinced.

“You saw something I shouldn’t be having, and I want you to have something you shouldn’t be having so we both won’t do anything … stupid,” Bucky explains. This explanation isn’t much satisfying either considering how Steve already has plenty of illegal stuff, but Steve doesn’t really want to argue. It gives him a silver hope that maybe this, whatever this is, could actually go on. The thrill of doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing, mixed with owning what he had dreamt of having since he was a teenager, is enough to tempt him to keep the gift, if he could call it that.

“You don’t wanna blackmail me for this?” He asks just to be sure, even though a part him wouldn’t mind even if the answer was yes.

“Rogers, you’re not a blackmail material. You think I don’t know your friend, Sam Wilson, has a crush on the baker in his neighborhood, or your father who hasn’t drunk for almost twenty years can’t stop thinking about it even for a day? That You like to draw and are responsible for some rebellious graffiti here and there? That you also have a thing for stray animals and the downtrodden? These are not much to work with. Your mom, though, she has some potential, but she’s too nice to be blackmailed. Don’t you agree?”

Steve’s heart drops. He almost wants to stand up and run away. He _is_ secret service, or at the very least, he is someone who has access to secret information, probably someone high up in the ranks of Hydra. That can never be good, but then he begins to think. If Bucky, and if that is his real name, really wanted to blackmail him or do anything to him, wouldn’t he have already done it? Why say all this to his face? To mock him? He doesn’t look the type.

Steve has an intuitive “Aha!” moment in his head. He actually thinks that Bucky wants to scare him away, but why? Steve eyes Bucky again. A man in his mid or late twenties who does illegal stuff in illegal parts of the town, smuggling illegal goods and giving them to strangers who also do illegal things. He’s handsome and mysterious in a way that is tickling Steve in all the wrong places, and he just wants to say that ‘no, you’re not scaring me with this bullshit. I’m gonna pursue this and see where we’ll end up. Do _you_ wanna run away?’

Instead, he just raises the box in his hand a little and says, “Thanks … for the gift.”

Bucky looks surprised for a fraction of a second but quickly schools his expression. “It’s nothing,” he replies after a moment of hesitation, and Steve recognizes the warning in the reply. Bucky didn’t give him anything, and Steve received nothing.

Steve doesn’t know this man much, and from what he _does_ know, he could be very dangerous. Yet, he just wants to sit down with him in a silence that seems oddly comfortable. In Hydra’s New World Order, only routine is welcome. You only do what you are told to do, and the reward is that you get to keep your head. Love is meaningless. Friendship does not matter. Family matters as long as you reproduce. Music, entertainment, arts, they will make you disobedient, and you are to stay away from them. Above all else, you live to serve Hydra. Beyond that, nothing matters. What he’s doing right now is not routine, and he wants it to last for as long as possible.

Yet Steve knows he has to go. Good things don’t stay long around here. He wants to ask a million questions from Bucky, but now is not the time. Maybe he’ll get to ask him later, or maybe he’ll never see him again. He might come back and arrest him tomorrow. Steve has decided to leave this to faith.

He stands up then, tucking the box under his arm as nonchalantly as he can, even though his heart is about to pound right out of his chest. “I’ve got to go back home.”

Steve looks at Bucky and finds that he’s looking back at him, not with anger or suspicion, not with indifference either, but with … a tinge of fear. What could he be possibly afraid of?

“Yeah,” is all Bucky says as he turns his head to look at a dark corner behind the buildings.

Steve says nothing else. He just turns around to walk towards their building. The fallen leaves crunch under his shoes and make his heartbeat all the more faster. He goes inside the building and walks up the stairs as quietly as he humanly can and opens the door quietly.

His parents seem to be sleeping.

Going inside his room, he hesitates before walking to the window to look down. Bucky is gone, and there is no sign of him anywhere else as though he never existed, but Steve still has the box firmly tucked under his arm, proof that he did meet him a few minutes ago. Kneeling down in the dark, he finds the loose tile on his bedroom floor and lifts it quietly. Underneath, there are some of his old sketches, a pack of cigarettes, a pack of condoms that has never been used, a collection of the best short stories of America, an old mp3 player without batteries, and a Swiss army knife. He shoves the box in the hole without examining the colored pencils set. He’d like to do that when no one is home, so he can really appreciate it.

Strangely enough, his heart is still beating fast. Even after lying down on his bed and tossing and turning for a few minutes, he cannot bring himself to sleep. His mind keeps replaying the scenes in the garage and their exchange downstairs over and over again, each time remembering details Steve didn’t know he had even paid attention to. Everything feels like a puzzle he just cannot solve.

After many years of meaningless monotony, Steve feels he has seen a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether it leads to heaven or hell, however, remains to be seen.

**To be continued …**


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

It takes Steve exactly seven days to tell Sam everything. He waited this long because putting Sam in any form of danger is the last thing he wants. A part of him, however, the part that is always unnecessarily curious, wants to know if Bucky was bluffing when he said Sam had a crush on the baker of their neighborhood, so he just blurts it out to Sam as they’re walking in the university campus, and the way Sam chokes on his coffee is confirmation enough.

“What?” Sam asks with wide eyes, but his expression doesn’t fool Steve for a second.

“That can get you into serious trouble,” Steve mutters low under his breath. Marriage in the New World Order is not … fun. Most of the times, you are usually assigned to someone after the age of twenty by the government, and if you are still crazy enough to actually want to choose someone for yourself, then you have to go through some rigorous tests to see if you and the person you have chosen match, and you never do. After all, marriage in their government has only two purposes: reproduction and serving the system. So knowing that Sam has a crush on someone gives Steve all sorts of fear, not because he’s against it, but because he’s aware how hot-headed and impulsive Sam can be, and having heard stories of the tragic endings of love stories …, Steve thinks he has every right to be frightened.

“How … how did you find out? No one knows. _No one_ ,” Sam whispers as they pass a university guard. It’s not easy being watched twenty-four seven, but that’s what Hydra is about. Guards in universities and schools, guards at workplaces, guards in hospitals, petrol police on the streets and in neighborhoods. Everyone must obey or perish. No wrongdoing is tolerated.

One would think that being born and having been raised in this system and having read the stories of the tragedies of what could have happened if the Allies had won World War II would be enough proof for Steve to believe that their government was the best solution to end the miseries of all humanity. Most countries that had opposed the Hydra New World Order in the past had been destroyed one way or another. Even if their government was not ideal, this was the only option they had anyway. From what his mom has told him, the country wasn’t so uniform twenty years ago. There were so many rebel groups fighting against the system, but it all always ended in bloodshed and chaos. People were so tired of the unrest, they actually voted for Hydra to abolish all opposing groups, and now there is only Hydra and nothing else in the U.S.

This knowledge, however, has never made Steve feel at ease with this way of living. He knows somethings are missing. His soul is always calling out for more, and he can do nothing but to stifle the calls on a daily basis. He’s now a master of suppressing his needs.

One of the reasons why he hangs out with Sam is that even though they can never talk openly about anything, cannot protest about anything, or run away, there’s something in their eyes that always connects them together. It’s just a feeling that if they cannot beat this system, they will not blindly obey it either, and that is enough for now.

Steve is almost used to the feeling of always living in constant fear that someday, some guard will finally find out what is in his head and will hang him on the Execution Square. Many times, he comforts himself by thinking that he’s being paranoid, but only last week, Bucky told him about Sam’s crush when no one really knew. So, maybe Steve has a right to be paranoid after all.

“I need to tell you something,” Steve whispers as he grabs Sam’s forearm and makes him sit on a bench. He takes a deep breath, double checks his surroundings before telling Sam about Bucky. He leaves out certain details such as his excitement over getting to know him and his hopes of meeting him again. Still, Sam looks at him as though he’s looking at an alien.

“You’re talking to _me_ about trouble? This man is hundred percent secret service, or a guard, or a petrol police. How else would he have so much information on you and me? He’s baiting you. They’re sadistic sons of bitches, Steve. Stay away.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Steve says quietly, and at the bottom of his heart, he really believes that.

“And why’s that?”

“It’s a gut feeling,” Steve murmurs. Sam looks as though he wants to strangle him, and Steve knows he’s probably right, but he has a feeling, and he just wants to go with it.

Realistically speaking, he has nothing in his life worth fighting for. He’s studying in a major he hates just because some councilor recommended that this way he’d be more useful for the system. He’s living in a home with a father who hates him and a quietly suffering mother who can’t wait for he life to be over. One or two years from now, he has to marry a complete stranger and bear children for this system because they need workforce, and then he has to let go of the smallest illegal pleasures he has, and he might not even see Sam anymore because he might be deployed to any city they need and work until he dies. So, yeah, he just has a feeling, and he wants to keep it.

Sam stays quiet for a while, and so does Steve. He stares at the group of women at the other end of the campus, and remembers how his mom said that once upon a time, classes weren’t uni-sex. He wonders what it must have been like. Is everything Hydra saying about the detriments and dangers of mixing genders together true? Are men truly unable to control their sex drives, and men and women are unable to form healthy friendships? Or maybe it’s just that –

“You gonna lose your head,” Sam interrupts his thoughts with a warning. “This man, whoever he is, is too dangerous. You should know better than that.”

Yes, he does, but he feels so dehumanized, he’s willing to make stupid risks just to feel like a real person again.

“You’re not going to see him again, are you?” Sam asks after another stretch of silence.

Steve wants to lie and say no, he’s not stupid, but he’s never been a good liar, although lying is a necessary means of survival in this bloody system. “Come on, we’re gonna be late for class,” he says instead as he stands up and walks away without looking back at Sam.

*****

It takes Steve three more days before he deices to pay the garage another visit. He has to wait until sunset so that the streets are less crowded, and he can find a way to go to the edge of the town without being noticed by the petrol police. He’s even practiced acting lost a couple of times in case he does get caught.

Going to the edge is a bit different this time. Last time he was so busy running after Ginger he hadn’t noticed that some women, and occasionally some men, were hanging in the shadows, long and thin and giving him looks Steve couldn’t decipher at first. This time, though, he sees them and realizes what the looks meant. It isn’t a pretty sight, and he feels his heart dropping in a way he hadn’t felt before.

Prostitution is illegal, even punishable by death, and yet there they are, probably left to their own devices to survive because they have nowhere else to go.

Hydra has a rigid class system, the rich, the poor, and the middle class; each with their own assigned roles and in dark about what the other classes are doing. Steve doesn’t know if prostitution is something for the poor class or if the rich are their clients. There is no way for Steve to know. He is from the middle class, all his future is already mapped up for him for the system, and the more he knows about other things, the more trouble he will be in.

It takes him another twenty minutes of nervous walking before he finds the garage.

But it is not there.

At first, Steve thinks that maybe he has made a mistake. He walks a few blocks up and down, but, no, it isn’t there. Someone has done a tremendous job of removing every possible trace of a garage ever being there.

Steve just sits down and leans his back against the dirty wall, disappointment hitting him hard in the chest. What is he looking for anyway? What did he think was going to happen? Maybe this is for the best. Yet, the self-reassurance doesn’t make him any feel better.

Now he just has to go home, avoid his parents, study, and sleep. The same old routine. Routine is comforting. Routine is safe.

And he hates it/

There was no light at the end of the tunnel after all. Only a mirage.

*****

One month passes, and Steve has almost forgotten about the whole thing.

Well, that is a complete lie.

He hasn’t forgotten, but he is doing his best to pretend. Sometimes he wonders if it really happened. If a man named Bucky gave him freaking colored pencils, so he checks the hole under the tiles every now and then, and yes, there they are in all their glory, mocking him with their beautiful colors.

Steve’s on his way home after his part time job at the coffee shop in their neighborhood, exhausted and in low spirits. The worst part about having a part time job for men is that there is no payment. It is mandatory to have a part time job during your school years. He doesn’t know if others feel like him or not, but Steve feels like his life is wasting away like sands in the sea, and he has no control over it. Then again, at least he gets to do something. Women have no rights to work outside at all, except sewing, cleaning, cooking, and midwifery. He doesn’t even want to imagine what hell they are going through. His mom, an activist twenty years ago, now a cook at some rich man’s house uptown, is a good reminder that things can go way, way worse than what Steve is going through.

He’s lost in thoughts of running away when the alarms in the streets go off.

Steve feels all his muscles clench. He’s not ready for this.

There’s a famous square in the city hated by many which is designed for public execution of criminals, but that’s not the worst part. Watching the execution is mandatory if you are outside. After all, you need to have the fear installed so deep, you don’t dare make one single mistake. Steve hates this more than he hates anything in the system, and having watched it for ten years hasn’t made it any easier for him. If anything, it keeps getting harder and harder, watching legs of men and women move desperately as their souls leave. A lot of times he doesn’t know who they were or what they had really done. Did they deserve to die like this? Probably not.

The scariest part about the whole thing is how excited some people are for watching the execution as though it’s the best TV show on earth. It’s true that all the TV shows are nauseating and filled with stupid propaganda. Still, is the scene of a real person dying something to clap for?

Steve flinches as a man shoulders past him while running toward the square.

There are eight bodies lined up with bags covering their faces. Steve can tell two of them are women by how petite their bodies are and how their legs are shaking. He doesn’t want to be here, but the petrol police is everywhere, watching people for every _abnormal_ behavior with their guns loaded, so he forces himself to stand still and watch.

Things are not so bad until the bag of the last person is removed, and Steve forgets to breath.

It’s the neighbor’s daughter.

Steve passes her every day as he goes to university, and she goes … wherever it is that she goes every morning. When they were younger, Steve used to make paper flowers for her and pass it through the door until his dad found out, hit him a couple of times, and warned him never to do that again.

She’s shaking, crying, and begging as they announce her crime.

Homosexuality.

And then the rope is pulled. Steve watches the body flail in the air, but feels as though it is _his_ soul that’s leaving his body. He feels unbearably cold as he crouches down to hyperventilate, and that’s when he notices somebody’s dragging his body out of the cheering crowd.

It’s the police petrol. They’ve suspected. Now they’re going to arrest him, search his room, and find everything. They’re going to attach a lie detector to him and find out what he really thinks. He’s gonna be tortured until-

“Breathe. Breathe!” somebody’s shouting and slapping his face.

Steve gasps and struggles so he can get free of the iron hold on his forearms. He shakes his head a couple of times to get rid of the dark patches in front of his eyes, and then he sees the man in front of him.

Bucky.

Steve kneels and vomits on the floor next to the trash can in the corner of the alley.

He heaves a few times before taking a few breaths, cleaning his mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve, and looks up at Bucky with all the rage he can muster.

Bucky is looking back at him with as much rage, mixed with a tinge of disbelief. “Are you insane? You can’t act like that at an execution,” he spits out.

Steve wants to stand up and beat him, but his legs are shaking. “Screw you,” Steve snaps back, all the rage and fear he had been feeling during the past days rushing out of him. His mouth tastes like an ashtray, and he smells twice as bad, but he doesn’t care.

But there’s something in Bucky’s expression, some sort of softness mixed with a kind of fear that confuses and excites Steve in ways he cannot describe.

“My neighbor was up there. Dying like an animal, … worse than animal,” he whispers as he stands up and shakes the dust off his pants. He’s still wobbly, but he can control himself better.

“I know,” is all Bucky offers in response.

Steve looks at him with disbelief. He knows _everything_. “You’ve been watching me,” he accuses vehemently but leaves out the ‘but not talking to me, not making any form of contact. You even destroyed the garage. You’re playing with me. What game are you playing?’ He thinks he has sent his message across though, because something in Bucky’s expression subtly changes. Is it guilt? Steve hopes so, even though he doesn’t know why he has such expectations.

Bucky stays quiet, hesitates for a few seconds before taking a napkin out of his pocket to hand it to Steve, and that is when Steve notices.

Bucky has a metal hand.

“You’re one of them,” Steve spits out, all the rage surging back in his veins. He doesn’t know why he feels betrayed. He had suspected it yes, but the confirmation is a stab in the heart. Only soldiers who fight in their wars and kill for Hydra get to have fancy metal replacements, and those soldiers are the worst.

Bucky’s one of them.

“You’re surprised?” Bucky asks, but his tone is not angry. There is no threat in it either. In a weird way, it seems like Bucky’s pleading with him, but what for? Steve can’t think anymore. He just-

“What’s going on here?” Steve hears someone say to his right a few feet away and for the second time that day, forgets to breathe. It’s the petrol police. This is not going to end well. This is, in fact, the end.

“Stay here,” Bucky whispers under his breath and walks to the police with such threatening strides that even the police looks scared. Steve can’t hear what they exchange, but the way the police turns around to leave with such haste without even glancing at Steve is telling enough.

Bucky walks back to him, but his face is carefully expressionless again, and Steve wants to punch it.

“Go home. Get some rest, and get these all out of your mind,” Bucky states calmly. “And don’t come looking for the garage. You’re already in enough trouble,” He finishes. Is this Bucky’s way of saying the petrol police has his eyes on Steve?

“What do you want from me?” Steve asks. He wants answers, and he will get them. Now.

“What makes you think you have anything to offer?” Bucky’s question is without bite, but it’s not friendly either.

‘Your eyes,’ Steve wants to reply, but he only bites his lips instead, tasting the bile again. There is a stretch of silence before Bucky turns around and leaves, as though nothing had happened. Steve, however, does not feel desperate. He knows, he _knows_ , they will see each other again. It’s just a matter of time.

He just has to be very patient.

*****

Steve’s patience does pay off, just not the way he had intended it to. It’s exactly ten days after their angry encounter at the Execution Square when Steve spots Bucky sitting at the corner of the coffee shop Steve works at, waiting to be served.

This could be a strange coincidence, but Steve knows very well that it isn’t. He knows all the regulars here, mostly lonely old men sitting in corners and following political news in Hydra Daily, the country’s only existing newspaper. Women, of course, are not allowed. Sometimes he wonders what coffee shops were like before all this. His mom says dates used to come here, as well as groups of friends, talking, laughing, and listening to music. She sometimes even tells her of bars where you could drink whatever you wanted.

Bucky looks like a sore thumb in the scene. To be fair, he’s done a great job making himself look invisible, having chosen the darkest table in the corner and wearing black, hiding his face behind the newspaper, but from the way Mr. Smith, the coffee shop owner is wearily eyeing him, Bucky hasn’t been completely successful. Then again, maybe he doesn’t want to be. Steve doesn’t really know.

“Rogers,” Steve snaps out of his thoughts and sees Mr. Smith nodding towards Bucky, silently asking Steve to serve him. Why can’t it be Anderson or Watson? Looking around, he notices they’re nowhere in sight. Cowards, always running away with the slightest sign of trouble.

Steve braces himself and takes a deep breath before moving toward the table. Well, he did want to play this game, now’s the time to see how good a player he can be.

“What can I get you, sir?” He asks as nonchalantly as he can, opening the notebook in his hand and trying to look very bored.

“A black espresso for me,” Bucky says, and looks up from his paper with a wide fake smile, already attracting attention from some old men. No one looks this happy in this dump hole.

“Yes, sir,” Steve replies and turns around to leave, all the pent up anger bubbling up again. This man is Hydra, and he’s playing with him. He gives him what he loves and disappears. He is watching Steve. He’s Hydra. He’s-

“And one for you,” Bucky continues, and Steve stops dead in his tracks. What?

“Excuse me?” Steve asks him in bewilderment, this time not faking anything. People don’t do such things around here. Young men are invisible here. They’re insignificant, and they are to be ignored. What the hell is Bucky doing?

“Seeing as it took you fifteen minutes to get my order, I’d say you need a wakeup call.”

Nice one. That’s more of a typical behavior around here: humiliation. Steve looks at Bucky’s expression. It looks stone cold, but the twinkle is back in his eyes. Yes, he’s playing Steve alright.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Steve mumbles as he walks away. He’s on his way to the kitchen when he hears Mr. Smith tells him to be careful with a warning tone.

Giving Bucky his order is now a challenge. Is he going to make a scene and call Steve out for some crime, or are they done playing for today? He has no way of finding out. He hesitates for a second before moving to the table again. Bucky’s not reading the newspaper anymore. It’s neatly folded on the table. Instead, he looks lost in thought.

“Here you go, sir. Your order,” Steve says as he puts the cup on the table, and Bucky touches his hand. It’s fast, lasts only for a millisecond, but it’s enough to make him feel scorched. He knows Bucky did that on purpose. He just knows it.

Steve takes a deep breath before picking the other cup from the tray.

“And this one’s for me,” Steve says evenly and takes a sip from the cup. It’s hot and burns his tongue, but it is totally worth it. Was it a cheeky move? Definitely. Did it earn him looks from the old men around? Yes, but he thinks the amused look on Bucky’s face is rewarding enough.

No, Steve is not backing down from the game.

**To Be Continued ...**


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

The ordeal goes on for nine more days except the holidays. Bucky arrives exactly at the same time every day, orders an espresso for himself and another one for Steve. Each time with a new excuse. By now, Mr. Smith has decided there’s something wrong with Bucky and doesn’t pay him much attention anymore. He does warn Steve to be careful every now and then though.

The game has changed from amusing to tense. It is not so much that Bucky is doing anything different. If anything, he’s the god of mastering routines, and he makes sure to touch Steve’s hand exactly at the same spot, and that’s precisely where the problem is.

Over the last few days, the amount of Steve’s wet dreams have increased dramatically. He feels like he’s a boiler ready to explode at any second, and there’s not much he can do about it.

He can masturbate, yes, but he’s had a very complicated relationship with jerking off in his lifetime. Not because it is a sin and young men are _strongly_ advised against it, but because it brings back memories he does not want to remember.

In his nineteen years of life, he’s experienced three crushes. One was on the baker’s daughter when he was around fifteen. She was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever laid eyes on. She was, in fact, the reason why Steve began to sketch because he was so overwhelmed with feelings for her, he just had to do something, so he began to sketch her besides jerking off at night thinking what it would feel like to touch her and have her touch him. This infatuation took one month before he heard she was married to one of the elite’s uptown, and he didn’t see her four three years, and when he did see her, she was carrying three babies, looking gaunt and scrawny with one side of her face bruised. Steve had never felt helplessness the way he felt it when he saw her pass the street that day, not even recognizing him.

His second crush was their old neighbor’s wife. Yes, it was wrong on many, many levels, but there was always something in the way she smiled at him whenever she passed her in the dark hallways like she knew who Steve really was and reassured him that it was okay. His husband wasn’t around much. Steve didn’t even know what he did, but Steve always tried to help her with grocery bags. That’s how he came to the possession of a collection of short stories. She just put it in one of Steve’s grocery bags and only smiled. Steve stayed awake many nights reading the stories over and over again.

And then, one day, the secret service came. He heard screams as they dragged her away, and then nothing. Later, he heard his father say she was an Eastern spy and had been hanged in the capital. Hydra was not in the habit of explaining where East really was or which countries were against them, but there was always, _always_ , some enemy in the East that wanted Hydra gone, and it seemed there were always many people around who spied for them, but how or why? Steve never knew.

The third crush was a little more complicated. It was in the junior year in high school. He knew Chris for a long time. He wasn’t from the neighborhood, but they had been attending the same schools for ten years now. Unfortunately, there weren’t many opportunities to become friendly with any one at school, You never knew if any of the teachers or the students were secret service, so everyone was always careful to keep away from anyone.

What changed things was a chance encounter in the loo when Steve found Chris listening to music on his MP3 player. Steve will never forget the look of horror on Chris’s face as he noticed Steve staring at him with wide eyes. Steve couldn’t really blame him. Growing up in the system, you learn to be wary of everyone. It took them some time to trust each other and to actually talk when they were sure no one was watching, and Steve found himself liking Chris in ways he had never felt before. The scariest part about having any sort of crush in the system is that it always hits you like a tsunami with such an overwhelming force that you have no other choice but to surrender.

They got to have one short kiss in a corner of the school where no one was watching before Chris got caught in a fight in his neighborhood and ended up hitting a petrol police. He had always been a hot head, and Steve always told him he’d get into trouble. Hydra sent him to the correction facility. Not many people get out of there sane or alive.. Now, all Steve has of Chris is his Mp3 player without batteries, a bittersweet reminder of a boy he once kissed.

At some point in your life, you learn that lust and love are futile, and Steve decided to cast them aside. He doesn’t have much of a choice either. Each time he wants to jerk off, bruised faces and dead bodies pop up in his head.

Apparently, thinking that lust leaves you alone too is just an illusion, because one touch of a man’s fingers on his hand, and now he’s being hit by waves over and over again, and he’s completely unable to control them.

Steve stands in the middle of the kitchen, not knowing what to do. Bucky’s really good at playing this game, Steve has to give him that. His expression never changes. And Steve can’t decipher what he’s feeling. Is he waiting for Steve to crack? What will happen if he actually does crack? Where does this path lead to?

His phone beeps, and Steve goes to a corner to check the message.

It’s Sam, asking him to go outside the café immediately.

Steve goes out the backdoor, and there Sam is, waiting for him under the rain with a panicked expression on his face. Steve checks his surroundings before moving to Sam.

“She’s gone,” Sam says before Steve can open his mouth. Steve has to think for a second before he understands Sam’s talking about his crush.

“What?”

“She’s gone. Been gone for a week now. She’s not in the bakery. She’s not at her home. I think-”

“You know her place?!”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to make!” Sam says through gritted teeth and sighs.

“Is it because of me? Do you think I did something? Did somebody find out?” Sam looks like he’s about to cry or scream.

Steve desperately wants to place his hands on Sam’s shoulders and comfort him, but it’s too risky. “It’s probably nothing. She’s-“

“Asha. Her name is Asha.” Sam mutters, resigned.

“Okay. Asha will probably come back,” Steve whispers even though he knows it is a lie. No one who has disappeared has ever come back.

“I’ve got to go,” Sam says after a few seconds of silence. “It’s just … too much.”

Yeah, Steve knows that, and he feels like he’s coming apart looking at the pain on Sam’s face. Worse than that is that he cannot do a single thing. Sam turns around and leaves after a fake smile. Steve wants to run after him, offer some help, say something reassuring, but none of that will be helpful, so he just watches his friend go before returning back to the kitchen, looking like a wet rat.

“Wonderful Rogers,” Anderson snaps as he spots him.

“I went to give the man in black his order, but he said only you should serve it,” Anderson looks like he wants to murder him, but Steve tries to act cool and only shrugs his shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” he says and Anderson pushes the tray in his hands.

“That man scares the living light out of me. What does he want?” Anderson asks, but Steve only shrugs, trying to look bewildered.

He wipes his face and pushes his wet hair back before walking back to the kitchen, trying his best to avoid Mr. Smith.

Bucky’s in his usual spot, staring out the window like he usually does when he’s waiting for his order. Steve takes a deep breath before moving to the table. He’s not mentally ready to face him.

“Sorry for the delay, sir,” Steve says evenly as he places the cup on the table, a part of him dreading, and a part of him eagerly waiting for the light touch on his hand.

This time, however, Bucky lays his gloved hand on Steve’s, stopping him dead.

“I’m really dissatisfied with your service,” he says loudly before leaning forward, “tonight at eleven at the previous spot,” Bucky whispers and leans back, “do something about it.”

If Steve hadn’t been paying attention, he wouldn’t have even heard the whisper. He looks at Bucky and realizes he’s waiting for a reply.

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” He says after a moment of hesitation. Bucky’s face remains emotionless.

Steve bumps into two people as he goes back to the kitchen, but his heart is beating too fast for him to care. What does Bucky want? And why is he so nervous? Hadn’t Steve been waiting for this, wanting more? Yes, he does want this, whatever the hell this is, to go on, but he hates being the player in the game who never knows his next move.

Steve really needs to do something about that.

*****

Being at the meeting spot this time is not as it was the last time, mainly because his father refuses to go to bed. Apparently, he’s busy with a new plan for Hydra. Joseph Rogers used to be a simple soldier before the coup, but somehow he proved his loyalty to Hydra, and they gave him a secret job he can’t tell anyone about. He doesn’t know what his father used to be like before, but according to his mom, he wasn’t like this; so angry and dissatisfied all the time.

His mother, too, used to be different. Steve doesn’t know what happened between them, but whatever it was, caused her to turn into a depressed mess who can’t wait to take her life given the opportunity. Sometimes Steve thinks he’s one of the few reasons left for her to keep going, and he oscillates between feeling good and terrible about that.

Now his father is all awake and hunched over his desk in the study room, and it doesn’t look like he will go to bed any time soon. Steve can take a risk and just go out. It could go very well, or his father could throw one of his tantrums and make life hell for all of them for a while.

The other option is to lie. It’s not that Steve’s against this option, it’s just that he’s a terrible liar. He’s never said one lie in his life without others knowing, and it’s highly unlikely that he will succeed now, but it’s 10:50 P.M. and he just doesn’t have any other options.

He stalls at the study room, thinking about how to phrase his lie when his father says, “What do you want?” without even looking up.

“Uhh… I need to go out.”

Joseph Rogers stops writing. “What for?” he asks and turns around in his chair to look Steve dead in the eyes. Now it is a lot harder to lie.

“Mom’s out of lorazepam. I’ve got to get her the pills or she won’t sleep well.”

“You got the pills last week.”

“I did, but I can’t find them,” Steve tries to keep his voice even and not swallow. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.

“You can go tomorrow.” He replies indifferently and turns back to his work.

“But-“

“Steve, darling, why haven’t you gotten my pills yet? I just can’t fall asleep.”

Steve turns around and stares at his mother in shock. She looks pale and sleep-deprived, but much more alert than what she has been in days. Had she been listening? So she must know he’s lying. He just gave her the pill an hour ago.

His father’s looking at her now, exasperated.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? It’s two hours past the curfew. All the drugstores are closed anyway. Why do you both always have to make some sort of trouble?”

“The Red Crescent Pharmacy’s always open. They know Steve, too. Darling, I can’t sleep without the pills.”

“Fine. Do what you want. If the petrol police catches you, I’m not bailing you out.” Joseph turns back to his work again, and just like that, the conversation is over.

Steve leaves the room as fast as he can and his mother follows suit. He’s waiting for her to ask a million questions or berate him for lying, but she seems composed and quiet. There’s even a hint of smile on her face.

“Be careful, Stevey,” it’s the nickname she used to call her a long time ago, and for a second he wants to embrace her, but this can’t undo years of negligence and abandonment. So he just nods and gets out of the house.

It’s 10:58.

If Bucky’s sitting at the bench, things can go bad. Steve’s certain he’s being watched by his father, and he can’t risk making any mistakes.

Bucky is not there.

Steve tries to look nonchalant and normal as he passes all the benches, secretly eyeing the empty park and the trees. Nobody’s there though.

He stands next to the last bench and tries to scan his surroundings without moving his head much. He can’t stands there for too long. It would be too suspicious, but he can’t find Bucky. Maybe he’s not there after all. Maybe he just-

A pebble hits the side of his shoe.

Steve looks at the last house, and sure enough, in the dark corner, a man in black is standing, only his head visible.

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and walks as quickly as he can towards the corner without making much noise. The lights of their house is still one, and he’s still being watched.

Bucky, however, has found the perfect spot.

Steve nods his head instead of a hello and finally allows himself to breathe. He’s half waiting for Bucky to say he’s late again or mock him or something, but he looks calm and steady, waiting for Steve to cool down.

“I need you to do something for me. It’s dangerous and difficult, and if you get caught …, nothing good will come out of it,” are the first words Bucky says. The way he says them, though, is like he’s talking about the weather.

Steve only blinks.

“Don’t look so dumb. I know you want to do something … meaningful. I know you want change. You want to get out of here. I’m giving you a shot.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Steve says angrily, suddenly feeling exposed that a stranger knows what goes on deep in his head. He doesn’t want to be here to listen to this.

But that stupid part of him reminds him that this is exactly what he wants.

“Please,” Bucky scoffs and moves closer, effectively cornering Steve against the wall. “I know you better than you know yourself. You would make a terrible spy.” Bucky inches closer and closer, until their thighs touch, and Steve can smell the nicotine on Bucky’s breath. He smokes? How? Where the hell does he find cigarettes? And why the hell is Steve surprised about that?

Bucky doesn’t back off, “I know things about you that you won’t even dare admit to yourself, so stop this dramatic act and let’s get down to business,” he’s whispering the words, and Steve can’t decide if they’re an invitation or a threat. Maybe both.

“Fine,” Steve grits out and struggles to break free. “Fine, you know everything about me. So what? Why should I care?”

Bucky looks genuinely exasperated. “Let’s make a deal. Do what I ask you tomorrow night, and if you decide you don’t want any of it, then you can forget about it and forget about me.”

“That’s no deal. So we’ll just be back to square one.” Steve crosses his arms in a defiant manner.

Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Alright. And I’ll get you something you need.”

“Like what? Another set of colored pencils? Maybe a pack of cigarettes?” Steve tries to sound like he’s mocking, but he really wouldn’t mind getting them.

“Like proper care for your mother.”

Steve’s eyes widen. He doesn’t know whether he should be shocked, infuriated, or frightened. Mentally disabled people don’t get to stay with their families. There are special institutions for them, and no one sees them ever again. If anyone really knows that she’s sick …

“I told you before. Your secrets are safe. I’ll get your mom a doctor who knows what to do, and no one will ever know.”

Steve wants to ask why, but he knows he’s better off not knowing.

“OK. What do I need to do?” He asks after an uncomfortable stretch of silence.

Bucky put his metal hand in his pocket and takes out a folded note. The way the metal hand works like a real one is nothing short of amazing, but Steve doesn’t like to look at it. It’s a sharp reminder of who Bucky really is.

He hands Steve the note. “One more thing. Sam needs to do this, too.”

“What? He’s too … conservative to be a part of … whatever it is you have planned. He won’t agree in a million years.”

“Tell him it involves Asha. He’ll come,” Bucky replies.

Steve wants to scream, out of fear, anger, or exasperation, he’s not sure.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll tell him, but … never mind. Everything I need to know is in this?” Steve waves the note in the air.

Bucky only nods.

“Can I send a message if I have any questions?”

“No, and you need to go now,” Bucky says.

Steve wants to punch him in the face, but that won’t do any good, so he just shoves the note deep in jacket pocket and turns to leave before he remembers.

“Oh, I need to go to the Red Crescent Pharmacy.”

Bucky only looks at him.

“I need to get some pills. My father will ask, and I can’t lie again.”

“Are you intentionally doing this so you’ll get caught and won’t have to do the plan tomorrow? I have to say, this is a dumb, but very practical plan.”

“I really need to do this.”

Bucky looks at him for a few seconds before sighing in defeat. “I’ll get you to the pharmacy, but you need to work on your lying skills if we’re to work together.”

“We don’t know if we will,” Steve’s happy he’s become comfortable enough to be a smartass around Bucky.

“Follow me,” is all Bucky says as he moves quickly towards the other block. Steve follows quickly, making sure no petrol police is around, and stops dead when he sees Bucky moving towards a black van. A black van which looks identical to Petrol Police’s vans.

Is this it then? He’s done?

Bucky unlocks the front door and beckons Steve to come.

Why would he drive this van? Is he honestly the petrol police? Is he a soldier? Is he a spy? _What_ the hell is he?

Steve takes a deep breath, moves to the car, and gets in quietly. He supposes he will find the answers to his questions soon enough.

For the first time in a long time, Steve has the perfect opportunity to really look at Bucky as he starts the car. Even though it is pretty dark, Steve can focus on all the details of his face. There are a few scars here and there. A part of him wants to ask how they happened, and a bigger part of him is scared to know.

There is almost no one on the streets, and Steve finds himself fascinated by the beauty of the night, just realizing he has never been out at this time, driving around. It’s the first time he actually notices that although the city is empty of any people, posters, or even colors, it is still oddly attractive. He wonders if he could on night just take a stroll and enjoy small things like the wind on his face or the leave crumbling under his feet. Could he maybe take a walk with Bucky and find out who he really is? How would that feel?

“We’re here,” Bucky states and Steve just realizes he had been daydreaming the whole way, and he just missed the chance of studying Bucky more. Well, maybe on the way back home.

“You want Lorazepam, right? I can get you one bottle,” Bucky says, and Steve doesn’t even bother to be surprised anymore. This man knows all his family’s secrets. He probably knows secrets Steve doesn’t know, So he just nods his head.

Bucky is about to get off the car when he suddenly whispers, “oh, shit.”

“What is-” Steve wants to ask as he wildly looks around, but Bucky’s hand is at the back of his head, pushing him down.

“Get down. Now!”

Bucky’s hand is forceful as he forces Steve to bend down. Steve’s heart is beating out of his chest as he rests his head on his thighs and grabs his knees with his hands.

There’s nothing for a few seconds, but then Steve hears the all too familiar steps of the petrol police. There is a pair of them as usual, walking in sync towards the car. Is this how he’s going to get caught?

Steve’s in such a state of panic, it takes him a few seconds to realize Bucky’s hand is still on the back of his neck rubbing small circles on his skin in a soothing manner, but he can’t calm down, especially as he hears the footsteps getting closer and closer toward the driver’s seat.

“Stay down, and don’t make a single noise,” Bucky mutters. Steve does as he’s, trying to make himself as small as he humanly can as he tries to fits himself in the small space. He hears Bucky shift and the window going down. He’s probably trying to block the view. Being the big man he is, he probably can do that.

Steve’s ears are buzzing from the blood pumping, and it takes him some time to realize Bucky is talking, but not in English. Steve hasn’t ever heard any other languages, but from what he’s hearing, the words are sharp and brusque, and Bucky’s tone is deeper than usual. The petrol police is speaking in the same language, and that just scares Steve all the more.

Bucky’s tone is very calm and collected. Seems like he’s had a lot of practice in lying and pretending.

He is still talking as he gets off the car and shuts the door. Steve doesn’t dare move even when Bucky stops talking. There is complete silence for a few minutes, and Steve doesn’t dare move a muscle. He feels pathetic as he keeps kneeling down, his muscles protesting in the uncomfortable position. Never before had he realized how cowardly he could act in face of danger. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just trying to freaking live. Why does he have to pay such a price for it?

Steve’s not sure, but he thinks it takes three more minutes when he hears footsteps again. The footsteps are long and strong like a soldier’s, and Steve’s sure it’s Bucky as the door opens and Bucky comes in. Nothing happens for ten more seconds before he hears Bucky mutter, “stay down.”

The car starts moving, and Steve’s hit with a wave of nausea. Whether it is from his position or fear, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he has to keep swallowing to keep the bile down.

When Bucky asks Steve to come up, all his muscles are either numb or aching, but the pain is nothing compared to the humiliation he feels. He has had his own fair share of being beaten down by bullies or threatened by the system, but this one feels humiliating on a whole new level, maybe because Bucky’s here, and Steve doesn’t even know which side he belongs to, or maybe he’s becoming sick and tired of hiding for doing nothing wrong. Whatever the reasons is, it stops him from looking at Bucky’s face. He squints and looks around, noticing their apartment a couple of blocks away.

The distress on his face must be too obvious, because when he dares to look at Bucky from the corners of his eyes, he spots an expression he hasn’t seen before. It looks like a mix of concern and … maybe guilt, and it feels oddly satisfying.

Bucky fishes the bottle of pills out of his pocket and extends his hand to give it to Steve, and that’s when Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and squeezes it. Whether it is because he’s looking for some sort of physical comfort or it’s in retaliation for all the hand flirting in the coffee shop, Steve doesn’t know, but the warm hand feels heavenly against his cold, clammy one, even with the bottle digging into his skin, so he doesn’t let go.

When he looks at Bucky again, his expression is transformed. Steve’s not an expert in this field, but he thinks he can spot desire when he sees it, and it makes him feel empowered in an inexplicably delicious way, and he thinks it’s the rush of adrenaline that makes him lean in and kiss Bucky while he’s still firmly holding on to his hand.

It’s a short and brutal kiss but makes his nerves spark so strongly that Steve thinks might combust any second. He breaks the kiss then, lets go of the hand, and bolts out of the car, literally running to his apartment.

He runs up the stairs, not caring if he makes a noise, quickly opens the door, and bolts inside. His mom is still up, sitting on the couch, looking sick worried, but her eyes brighten up when she sees Steve walking towards her. Steve takes a deep breath, gently puts the bottle on her lap and walks to his room, shutting it fast.

He leans on the closed door, takes three deep breaths, then pulls his pants down and masturbates while he can still taste Bucky on his lips.

**To Be Continued**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked the story, please leave a comment. :)


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